


Starchild

by Volant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unrequited Love, jaime is a hot mess, movie star jaime, personal assistant brienne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8480611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volant/pseuds/Volant
Summary: Jaime's may be an A-list movie star, but his personal assistant, Brienne, is definitely out of his league.





	1. Houston, We Have A Problem.

It’s not that Jaime hasn’t noticed before. Of course he has. You can’t not notice a woman like Brienne. You can’t notice her without wanting to _keep_ noticing.

The thing is, there are problems. The first one being that it isn’t professional, looking at your assistant the way that Jaime wants to look at his. Brienne is good at her job. She has no qualms about threatening the press into silence and never complains about staying late when filming goes overtime. She’s downright immovable when it comes to feeding Jaime, making sure that he drinks enough water and waits an hour before he’s back on set, director be damned. Once, last week, after an exhausting video conference with Tywin, Brienne had sat with Jaime on the narrow couch in his trailer and rubbed out the tense knots that formed in his shoulders.

“You carry all your tension here,” she’d said. “Yoga would help. I’ll find somebody.”

That shouldn’t have been sexy. It _wasn’t_ sexy--she’d been wearing a pantsuit, for God’s sake, and the fact that Jaime had dreamed about the way her hands felt on him was only a testament to his prolonged dry spell.

The second thing is Brienne’s age. She may be several inches taller than Jaime, and broader, but Jaime knows for a fact that she’s barely old enough to drink. He can see it in the blue of her eyes, in the way she plays around with Tommen and Myrcella when they visit on the weekends, or the way she’s always ready to explain a pop culture reference. She’s never tired, never bored. Sometimes, Brienne even talks Jaime into swimming laps with her in the Olympic-sized pool provided by the studio. Jaime realizes after the first time that it's swimming that gives Brienne her impressive musculature, though the height, and the hair, and the freckles come from her father.

“I used to go swimming in the ocean with my mom and my brother,” Brienne had told Jaime one morning, as they soaked away in one of the hot tubs.

“Are they as fast as you are?” Jaime said. “Fish.”

“No,” Brienne said. “They’re dead.” And then did a passing impression of a clam, as though she’d said something wrong. As though Jaime hadn’t spent the first month of her employment revealing secret after filthy secret to her.

That’s the third problem. Brienne knows everything. She knows what Jaime’s allergic too (turnips), if he’s a cat or dog person (cat--it runs in the family), if he prefers cake to pie (sugar cookies over all). Brienne knows how Jaime likes his coffee, and which suit he’d prefer to wear to premiers, which book he’s most likely to purchase in the airport, just before a long flight. She knows about the Starks ( _knows_ the Starks) and Aerys, the lunatic, and Cersei. Brienne knows everything, and she does not care. Or, she does care, but in a way that culminates in her calmly telling Jaime’s father to go fuck himself, or in bedside pep-talks after possibly career-ending injuries, or in fielding all of his calls, both professional and personal, and then instead of running away, moving even closer, so that she has a key to Jaime’s house and access to his schedule and his email. She could ruin his career with what she knows about Jaime Lannister.

The worst part of it all is that he doesn’t mind.

Jaime realizes this one night, driving back to the hotel after a couple days spent working the talk show circuit. Brienne is in the passenger seat, bare feet propped up on the dashboard of the vintage Valyrian car. Her profile is illuminated by the light of her smartphone as she checks the schedule for the next day.

“You get a break,” Brienne says over wind rushing through the open windows. “For most of the day, at least. Nine o’clock flight to Braavos, but you’re already packed for that.”

“What are your plans for the day?” Jaime says. His right hand rests on the arm of Brienne’s seat. “Sightseeing, before we leave?” It’s not the first time that they’ve been in King’s Landing, but it is the first that Brienne will have time to herself. Jaime had toyed with the idea of taking her to see the Blackwater, or maybe the east gate, but that had seemed like it would be too close to...something, and so he’d let the idea go.

“No,” Brienne says. She yawns. “No time. I’ve got a meeting with Catelyn at seven, and then some errands to run before we fly out.”

“Errands?”

“Mainly shopping,” Brienne says. “I need a good coat, since we’ll be in Winterfell for eight months. And boots, and gloves. A sweater, if I can find one I like.”

“Sounds boring,” Jaime says. Brienne shrugs.

They walk into the lobby of the hotel together, after Brienne fits her black flats back onto her feet and Jaime tosses the keys of the car to a valet. They’d decided, after a month of working together, that it was easier to stay in the same hotel. There were too many times when Jaime had needed Brienne. It’s the kind of hotel that’s discrete about who it puts up, the kind whose clientele don’t look twice at an A-list actor stepping onto an elevator to get to his room. Staying someplace like this gives Jaime the excuse he needs to give his bodyguards the night off.

When they get off on their floor, Brienne walks with Jaime to his room. Her phone’s disappeared into the depths of her cheap, durable purse.

“Get some sleep,” Brienne says. “You know how to reach me.”

She’s standing close, enough that when Jaime meets her gaze, he’s struck again by just how blue her eyes are. Somewhere along the drive, the hair that she keeps in a tight bun has come loose, so that brittle wisps of yellow float around her cheeks.

Jaime nods. He says good night, and when he goes to sleep, he dreams of the ocean.

 

 


	2. Lion's Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne and Jaime meet for the first time.

Brienne Tarth is, without a doubt, the ugliest personal assistant that Jaime’s ever laid his eyes on. The woman is such a trainwreck, in fact, that Jaime can’t seem to keep his eyes off of her. He can almost imagine what Cersei would say if she were here- “you’d let that hulking, disfigured cow of a woman handle your career? Your personal life? Jaime, please.” 

On his own, Jaime can’t think of much better. He takes in the brittle blonde buzz cut, the furious red scar, the broad, muscular shoulders and arms that are visible beneath the thin cloth of the woman’s blouse. 

“Catelyn,” he says, and tears his eyes away from the blushing giantess on his right.

“She’s the best,” Catelyn says. She’s distracted, flipping through a stack of papers on her broad, stainless steel desk. At Jaime’s side, the Tarth woman shifts in the uncomfortably modern chair that she had thrown herself into upon entering Catelyn’s office. Tarth looks anything but happy with the situation- a bit disgusted, even- and Jaime’s inclined to agree. 

“No,” Jaime says, perhaps a bit too loudly for the office setting. In his peripheral vision, he sees Tarth turn her head to look at him directly for the first time. 

“Yes,” Tarth says, just as vehemently. Startled, Jaime turns and their eyes meet- what the fuck, he thinks, is she doing with eyes like that- and he sneers. 

“What,” Jaime snaps. “You think this is how you’re going to make your goddamn career? Clinging to my fucking coattails like some hideous child?”

“My career is already made, asshole,” Brienne says. “Catelyn promised me a project, not a warzone, but I owe her a favor so here I am.” She turns back to Catelyn. “You said he  _ wanted _ me.”

“I said you were what he needed,” Catelyn corrects. She looks over the rims of her square reading glasses at Jaime. “Brienne is responsible for the Tyrell siblings. Renly Baratheon. Hyle Hunt.”

“You’re joking,” Jaime says. Not that he hasn’t wondered about the miraculous resurrection of each actor’s career. Though, really, the Tyrells and Baratheon had bought their ticket to infamy together- Margaery’s fake marriage to Renly, who had been screwing her brother all the while? It was a wonder the press had ever gotten over that. Not to mention the force that had single handedly forced Hunt into rehab after one too many DUIs and promptly stuck him back on the talk-show circuit to do that “oh God, I hit rock bottom and knew that I had to change,” schtick on every available network, which had not only scored him a three movie contract wherein he played a repentant assassin, but had also gained the man a plethora of teenage fans. 

“She’s not,” Brienne says. Jaime glares at her and she shrugs, despite the fact that her entire face, neck, and shoulders have gone cardinal. 

“Brienne,” Catelyn says, setting aside her sheaf of papers, “is something of a problem solver. She’s the woman that I call when I want a job done, and done right. Right now, there isn’t a soul on this earth that would watch a movie with you in it after the Cersei fiasco.”

The Cersei fiasco, Jaime thinks. Right. He’s the dick movie star that got caught fucking his sister, having already sired three children with her, following an investigation into her husband’s untimely and incredibly suspicious death that Cersei happened to be responsible for. And who- as a consequence- has been blacklisted as unemployable by each and every studio in the United States of America, and a few more outside of it as well. God.

“Jaime,” Catelyn says, “you’ve had a long career with me, and I’d rather that it didn’t end yet. I don’t think you want it too, either. Take Brienne with you- and listen to what she tells you to do, because whatever it is it won’t be wrong. You have another few blockbusters in you yet.”

Jaime sighs.

“You’ve already talked to Bronn,” he says.

“Yes,” Catelyn says. “Brienne is willing to start immediately. Thank her.”

“Thank you,” Jaime says, sullenly. 

“You’re welcome,” Brienne says. She sounds rather smug.

_

The next morning, Brienne arrives at the front gate of Jaime’s home in one of Catelyn’s polished black SUVs. She isn’t surprised to see that it’s every bit as ostentatious as the man himself. The house itself has the red brick feel of a tudor mansion, but there are...gargoyles. And buttresses, and a fountain. Before all that, a driveway that’s about a mile long and bordered on either side with thick, untamed woods. 

It’s not a friendly place, but Brienne thinks that’s probably a good thing- the more secluded it is, the fewer paparazzi they should have to worry about. Already, she’s ticking off items on her list of things that need to happen in order to get Jaime Lannister’s career back on track. Things that she will do, Brienne tells herself, because she isn’t spiteful enough to say no to the paycheck Catelyn’s offering. No one will ever be enough of an asshole for Brienne to do that.

The driver pulls the car onto the drive beside the fountain, where Bronn is waiting. He’s dressed casually in khaki shorts, sandals, and a white polo shirt. 

“Brienne Tarth,” Bronn says when Brienne opens her door and dismounts onto the gravel drive. 

Brienne slings her purse over her shoulder and looks him up and down. 

“Jaime’s waiting for us inside,” Bronn says. “We’re very casual around here.”

Brienne hums her agreement.

“Not what you were expecting, was it,” Bronn says. He’s grinning wide. 

“No,” Brienne says. “It’s not.”

“Well, no worries,” Bronn says. “It’s a Lannister family home, so most of this is for show. The personal apartments are way more comfortable.” 

He leads Brienne up the long series of steps and through the impossibly large front door. There is a bronzed statue of a lion in the center of the cold, granite entryway, and Brienne finds herself wishing she were back in Margaery’s penthouse, with its plush carpet and over-the-top furnishings. There, at least, she didn’t feel so exposed. She felt welcomed. 

She follows Bronn, who keeps up a steady flow of informational small-talk about which Lannister had roomed where, and who had built this extension onto the home, and why this painting had single-handedly saved the U.S. from entering into some war or other. Then, there’s a narrow, creaking staircase, several doors that need unlocking, and Brienne finds herself standing in a room that looks almost like the living room of the house she’d grown up in. There is a soft-looking sectional couch and several armchairs arranged around what is, frankly, a startlingly large flatscreen television. Two brimming bookshelves frame a sliding glass door that opens onto what looks like a balcony, and the floor itself is littered with small, brightly-colored shapes that, when Brienne takes a closer look, are actually toy mice. There is a stack of dirty dishes on one of the side tables that bracket the sectional.

Bronn makes a smooching noise. Startled, Brienne turns to look at him and finds the man bent over, ruffling the ears of a very small cat. 

“This,” he says when he notices Brienne staring, “is Ser Pounce.”

“Oh,” Brienne says. “That’s...nice.”

“Uncle Bronn,” someone- a child- says behind her. “You found him!”

“More like he found me,” Bronn says, and scoops the kitten up into his arms. A kid scurries past Brienne- a boy, with that patented Lannister-blond hair, who can’t be older than eight or nine- and reaches for it, but Bronn lifts the kitten out of reach and sets it on his shoulder, where it digs its claws into the material of Bronn’s shirt and holds on.

“I think Ser Pounce missed me,” Bronn says, and nudges the boy around to face Brienne. “Tommen, this is Brienne. She’s going to help Uncle Jaime with his work. Say hello.”

Tommen sweeps his eyes upwards from Brienne’s feet, craning his neck back comically to meet her eyes.

“Holy cow,” he says. Tommen blinks, and then he smiles. “Do you like cats,” he says, as though this is the most important question in the world.

“Well,” Brienne says. She looks at Bronn, who raises his eyebrows unhelpfully, and goes back to nuzzling Ser Pounce. “I certainly like yours.”

“Ser Pounce is the best,” Tommen says enthusiastically. “Uncle Jaime got him for me last month, at the county fair. He can chase lights and climb curtains and when he makes noises like this-” Tommen made a wonky chirping noise- “that means he’s saying ‘hello, nice to see you.’ He likes Tuna. Do you like Tuna?”

“No,” Brienne says. “Do you?”

“Only on sandwiches,” Tommen says. “Myr says it’s disgusting but Uncle Jaime always puts pickles in it, and cuts it in triangles, so I think that’s okay. Are you and Uncle Jaime friends?”

“I’m going to help him with work for a little while,” Brienne says. 

“That’s nice,” Tommen says. “Are you on the TV too?”

“She is not,” Jaime Lannister says. He’s materialized in the doorway between this living room and what looks like a kitchen. He’s dressed just as casually as Bronn is, in jeans and a t-shirt and bare feet, hair wild as though he’s just rolled out of bed. Brienne wants to know how he can look like that and still successfully project the vaguely intimidating charisma of a vengeful god. 

“Why,” Tommen says, and frowns at his guardian. 

“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” Lannister says, and then before Tommen can whip back around to Brienne, “weren’t you going to litter-train Ser Pounce?”

“Ser Pounce got bored,” Tommen says. 

“Did he,” Lannister says. “Bronn.” 

Bronn rolls his eyes and disentangles the kitten from his shirt. It squeaks, adorably, and then begins to purr loudly as soon as it’s back in Tommen’s arms. 

“Fine,” Tommen says. “Bye, Brienne.” He takes the kitten back through the open doorway. 

Lannister shuts the door carefully behind Tommen.

“I thought,” he says evenly, “that we agreed to meet in the office.”

“And I thought Brienne might want to get a look at your actual home,” Bronn said. “You know, since it’s her job to make you look good. Might actually start somewhere you, you know. Actually spend a decent amount of time.”

“Fuck off,” Jaime says, and throws a suspicious look in Brienne’s direction. “Tarth. This way.” 

Brienne resists the urge to huff under her breath. 

I am professional, she thinks. I am professional.

She follows Lannister back through the doors, down the narrow staircase, and down a particularly long windowed hallway to a large study. The walls are lined with bookshelves, save for the wall behind the desk, which is made up mostly of panels of glass that allow in a generous amount of sunlight. Jaime takes his place in the office chair behind an enormous wooden desk, and the sunlight that illuminates his hair almost seems to glow, aura-like, around him. 

God, it’s so pretentious. Brienne wants to laugh, because she knows exactly what this is. It’s a room built to give the man at the desk the illusion of power. It’s a room meant to deceive.

“Well,” Lannister says, impatiently. “Sit down. What’s your game plan?”

Brienne sits in a chair. She takes a deep breath and looks Lannister in his stupidly brilliant green eyes. 

“I don’t have a plan,” she says. 

“Excuse me,” Lannister says. His tone is even, emotionless. Nearly a monotone. His eyes narrow.

“I said I don’t have a plan.” Brienne leans forward. “Yet.”

“Yet,” Jaime says. He licks his lips. “Then what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m here to get to know you,” Brienne says. “And to tell you what the first step will be.”

Jaime leans back. He watches Brienne for another moment, and then refocuses his gaze on something just over her shoulder.

“I’ll be honest,” Brienne says, when she realizes no response is forthcoming. “You’ve dug yourself a pretty damn good grave and I’m not sure we’ll ever get you fully out of it. I’m aware of the not-so-secret Lannister family skeletons, I’m aware of the incident with Aerys Targaryen, and I’m also aware of the leniency Catelyn’s given you, considering that you once tried to hijack the running of Winterfell Enterprises at the behest of your sister.”

“Ah,” Jaime says. “I hoped we’d be able to avoid that incident.”

“I don’t like you, Mr. Lannister,” Brienne continues. “I think you’re a fuck-up, but you’re good at what you do and Catelyn prefers that you continue doing it. She thinks you have  _ potential,  _ and I’m inclined to believe her. You’re going to do what I say, and in return I will help you. This will be a mutually beneficial working relationship, if not a benevolent one.”

Jaime’s eyes meet hers again.

“The first part is going to be easiest,” Brienne says. “You are going to disappear. No social media, no trips to the grocery store, no walks through the park with Tommen and Myrcella and Ser Pounce. The media wants pictures, they want drama, so we’re going to starve them out. They need to have no idea what you’re up to. That way, when we’re ready, they’ll take whatever we give them. I will manage your text messages, emails, online presence, and your daily schedule. Bronn will handle things as far as your career goes. You will do the bare minimum it takes to maintain a presence in the industry. Is that acceptable?”

Jaime Lannister frowns. “Nothing at all,” he says. “You want me to do nothing at all.”

“Absence does make the heart grow fonder,” Brienne says. “Or, in this case, the fanbase.”

“You don’t do anything without my say-so,” Lannister says. 

“Not a damn thing,” Brienne says. She stands and extends her hand over the polished surface of the desk. 

They shake on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turns out anxiety-related insomnia is good for writer's block. Who knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Decided to give multi chapter works another try. I wrote this at midnight last night so I'll probably come back and edit it at some point. This is also probably going to be a little experimental since I'm taking advanced (literary) fiction this year. As always, kudos and comments are appreciated!


End file.
